


those the river keeps

by girljustdied



Category: Hannibal (TV)
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-05-25
Updated: 2013-05-25
Packaged: 2019-10-08 15:42:05
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 931
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17389145
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/girljustdied/pseuds/girljustdied
Summary: will is better at keeping secrets than he imagined he’d be.





	those the river keeps

**Author's Note:**

> prompt was “I feel as dark as night, I bury my wounds by the riverside.”

_“Sometimes at night, I leave the lights on in my little house_  
_and walk across the flat fields. When I look back from a distance,_  
_the house is like a boat on the sea. It’s really the only time I feel safe.”_

 

  
Will knows who the figure is on his front porch from a further distance than he should be able. Feels a certain cord in him pull tight and quiver with tension as he treads through the flat fields towards her.

Alana.

“Why are you here?” isn’t the best greeting, but for all he knows it won’t matter when he blinks and finds himself somewhere else entirely. “It can’t be about a case. You seem too calm.”  
  
He resists climbing the steps to her. Waits.  
  
She doesn’t cross her arms over her chest, doesn’t react self-consciously in the slightest. “Do I?”  
  
“Yes,” he looks up at her—tries not to look. “And still. And lovely.”  
  
“Thank you,” her tone clipped. She takes a deep breath, and is warm again, “As for why I’m standing on your doorstep, that’s a question I’m afraid even I can’t answer. Sort of got into my car for groceries and found myself here instead.”

“I know the feeling,” he admits. Would admit anything, bury everything in her, if he didn’t understand that each confession would mean another step back. “We do seem to find ourselves alone together now more than ever, don’t you think?”

“Do we?” not quite coy.  
  
“Yes,” his mouth makes the shape of a slight smile; his chin bends to his chest.  
  
He wants. He wants to be able to think about her. About touching her.  
  
“In my mind, I can’t lay a hand you,” she only stiffens just slightly as he reaches upward, and relaxes when his palm stills millimeters from her jawline. “I always stop just so.”  
  
“Why do you think that is?”  
  
“I’m not your patient,” the words taste bitter in his mouth. “You know why. Say it.”  
  
“You fear killing me there,” her succinct and pointed answer. “You’re afraid of the cold calculation, of the fury, the frenzy, of the banality of those who you—“  
  
“And are you?” he doesn’t mean to speak, much less interrupt her.  
  
She doesn’t miss a beat, “Afraid?”  
  
“Yes.”  
  
“Yes,” she echoes.  
  
He has to remind himself to breathe when he kisses her. Gets too caught up in the pull of her mouth, in her own chest raggedly rising and falling and rising again to crush against his. Details of her seem to undo his autonomous functions—this is the opposite of control, that’s what she doesn’t understand—  
  
“Will—”  
  
“Real, then.” This moment. Her.  
  
She presses two firm palms to his temples, thumbs on the line of his brow, and pushes him back just fractionally, not forcing, “Will, stop.”  
  
“You think that I want you to anchor me—save me—and it’s true. I do.” Mouth dry, he struggles to continue to rasp the words out—  
  
“I can’t do that for you. I won’t.”  
  
“You didn’t let me finish.”  
  
Wry, “Oh, did you have a speech prepared?”  
  
“Something like that.”  
  
She tilts her head in response, curious.

No, inviting. Throat bared.  
  
“You—you think that I want you to anchor me, save me, and it’s true, I do,” comes out in the rush of a single exhale. Then, slowly, purposefully, “But, right now, I just want to fuck you.”  
  
If she’s shocked by the vulgarity, she doesn’t show it. Only wordlessly turns away from him and towards his home. She tries the doorknob, finds it left thoughtlessly unlocked, and disappears inside.  
  
He blinks.

Her skin is unblemished, her body impossibly supple. Every time he feels he cannot pull her closer, she tightens around him. He can’t breathe—can’t—how did he get here—

Her lipstick smudges against his thumb as he tilts her head back to access a new part of her. It is not the color of blood. No blood when he slides a hand between her legs. No blood—

Why they did not make it to the bed, he cannot explain. It’s not hurried, not frantic, his fingers curling in won’t bruise her, tear her, he won’t—

“There,” she tells him when he twists his hand to be able to touch her clit with his thumb while his other fingers pump inside of her.

“There,” he murmurs against her collarbone.

“Kiss me,” she instructs, bending her nude body perched atop the back edge of his couch into a new shape to seek out his mouth.

“Kiss me,” he orders, their exhales mingling hotly.  
  
She does—

Water fills the room, his lungs—can’t breathe—her body almost weightless as he pulls her towards him, around him, over him, to thrust into her—can’t breathe—

Knees weak with pleasure, he sets her ass roughly against the back of couch again, cannot bear the weight alone. She cries out sharply. Her nails dig in.

“Softer,” in one breath. “Harder,” in the other.

He’ll only hurt her if she wants him to, he’ll only—

“Will—”

He blinks.

She’s still there—moving against him, with him—when he opens his eyes, her own gaze penetrating. He touches his forehead to hers and comes inside of her with a shudder. Their mouths meet thoughtlessly, more resting than kissing, panting as they try to calm their bodies.

“I know something,” his voice scratchy and raw. “I know something about Abigail.”

“Don’t tell me,” she begs. “Don’t, please. Not now.”

“She—” he struggles, shakes uncontrollably in her embrace.

Mouths the words silently into the soft swell of her breast.


End file.
